Craig Dilouie - The Killing Floor

“All right,” she says. “This time, I need you to get me close. We’ll wear gas masks. We’ll drive straight into him. I get out, I shoot him in the head. All or nothing. Then I get you to Nightingale.”

“Can get you close,” Marcus tells her. “Can do that.”

Anne runs her hand along his heavily muscled arm and wonders at the life they might have created together. She kisses it, tasting blood. Presses her scarred cheek against his bicep.

This is her way of saying goodbye.

“Look,” Marcus says. “The road.”

She stands, facing the wind rushing through the open windshield, and sees the billboard looming in a grassy field. The board is plastered with a wilting ad for a gun store and shooting range in the next town, five miles ahead. Morgantown.

The content of the ad barely registers with her. Someone has spray painted over it in bold black capitals:

DEFIANCE? FIND SOLDIERS IN MORGANTOWN

“I think things have just gotten more complicated,” she says.

Ray

The old truck lurches down the road, careening around abandoned wrecks, its driver feeling terrified and elated, still riding high on the adrenaline rush. The ferocity of Anne Leary’s pursuit makes Ray shiver even now.

She was one tough broad. But I took care of that, yes sir . I got her, I’m sure of it. Her and her entire crew, all dead or infected now, and good goddamn f’ing riddance.

“No more Mr. Nice Guy, honey.”

He glances right for a reaction but the seat next to him is empty. French, Anderson and Salazar are in the back, clinging to the sides of the truck, and Lola is dead, her brains splashed across a motel parking lot like so much litter.

Nothing ever works out the way you want it to , he tells himself, filled with bitter anger.

Lola is dead, but the plan is the same: go to Washington and help to make things right again. The lump in his side purrs in response to this thought. Yes, yes , it says. Find more people.

After driving through the burned-out husk of Horseneck, he saw the first billboard. He knew it was meant for him. Whatever doubts he had about trying to work out a deal were silenced by the apocalyptic horrors of Horseneck, which reminded him of the dead world of his fevered dream. Infection showed him that world as if it were an offering that would please him. To the bug, a dead world is beautiful. Lots of space for new life.

An epiphany makes him blink. The bug, he realizes, has no master plan other than to diversify and compete. Ray is not particularly special; he is just another mutation, an experiment, part of the Brood. Just like all the monsters. They are not things from another planet, recreated on Earth. They were specially created, like him, from genetic material the Brood found here. The Brood is not an alien race. It is life itself. A runaway program for building life.

You are my seed , the bug hums happily against his ribs, as if they are on the same side.

“I’m your cure, asshole.”

He passes another billboard, this one reading: DEFIANCE GO TO MORGANTOWN.

A feeling of calm washes over him. Every time he drives past a message the military left for him, he feels a little more control slipping away. Soon, it will all be out of his hands. He knows in his gut they are here for him. They know who he is, and they have come for him.

As he drives along happily, he keeps checking his rear view, wondering if Anne Leary really did die. The woman is indestructible. He can feel her back there somewhere, hunting him with that look of fierce glee on her scarred face.

It was just blind luck that prevented her from killing me. Twice.

As terror seeps back into his consciousness, he wonders if the government is going to make an honest deal with him. Maybe the idea is to treat him real good until they don’t need him anymore, and then put him down like a dog. Dissect him and throw him out like garbage. Hell, maybe no lab is out there waiting for him, no salvation, no redemption. Maybe the soldiers are waiting for him up there in Morgantown with flamethrowers.

What an idiot I sure am. I was about to give myself up without making sure I get what I want. I can’t trust anyone. Force is the one thing people respect. The only thing you know for sure is the sucker punch is coming. The only thing you can control is whether you are going to get it or give it.

He scans the forest on his left and sees nothing but trees in the gloom. Then he scans the grassy fields on his right, empty except for giant steel pylons carrying dead transmission lines.

Returning his attention to the road, Ray broadcasts: I can sense you. I know you’re out there. Meet me in Morgantown, but do not show yourselves to the people there. Hide and wait. Hide and wait for me. I will be with you soon.

He hears them murmur across the ether. Not the garbled, agonized voices of the Infected, but the obscene babble of monsters, clicking and chewing and grinding teeth.

He grunts in surprise. He did not know he could control the monsters.

This is a whole new ballgame, folks.

NEXT TOWN STOP WALMART

He barks a harsh laugh. What am I afraid of? I command MONSTERS.

The roadblocks appear at the outskirts of town. Ray taps the brake pad, downshifting, breathing fast and trying to ignore the sensation of falling in his gut. He becomes aware of a large military vehicle on his left and, in the distance, a Bradley like the one Sarge commanded. A big gas mask-wearing soldier with a flamethrower stands next to the Stryker. Ray waves at the man, who hesitates before waving back. Despite all of the anticipation, he is kind of surprised to see them here, just for him.

Straight ahead, another soldier in a gas mask stands with two men in biohazard suits holding plastic suitcases. This, he assumes, is the welcoming committee, rolling out the red carpet.

Cool Rod

Rod watches the truck stop and waits for the man to cut the engine, but he doesn’t; he lets it idle and even revs it once, as if having second thoughts. He studies the distant figure and decides this must be Ray Young. He raises his hands, showing he is unarmed, and waves his arms over his head. Stop, stop. Kill the engine.

The beat-up pickup slowly turns and pulls into the parking lot of the office building across the street from the Walmart. The engine dies and Young steps down from the truck, slamming the creaky door. Rod gets his first good look at the man and feels like he already knows him. Dressed in a wrinkled black T-shirt, dirty jeans and, oddly, a brand new STEELERS ball cap pulled down low over a scowling unshaven face, Ray Young looks like any number of rednecks living around Dallas, where Rod grew up.

Young whistles and three men jump down from the truck bed dressed in bulletproof vests, T-shirts, jeans, cowboy boots. Empty holsters on their hips, guns in their hands. Rod watches them take up positions in a defensive formation around Young, acting like bodyguards.

Friends of his?

No, it looks like Sergeant Wilson was right. The man can control the Infected. Incredible.

Rod checks out the Bradley on his left. Sergeant Wilson watches the scene from the commander’s hatch, wearing a gas mask. His shooters are gone, dispersed into concealed positions. Wilson catches him watching and gestures as if to say: It’s all yours, Sergeant.

“What’s your name, sir?” Rod calls out.

“I’m Ray Young?” the man answers tentatively, as if he’s not sure.

“Bingo,” Rod says to the scientist, who grins behind his faceplate. “You guys ready?”

Dr. Price gives him a thumbs up.

“We’re going to send our scientists over to talk with you,” Rod calls out again. “Is that okay, Mr. Young?”